


Health

by FatlockFills



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caring for the Sick, Feeding, Hurt/Comfort, Jim doesn't know how to take care of someone, M/M, Weight Gain, feederism, mormor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-16 01:31:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2250825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FatlockFills/pseuds/FatlockFills
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Request: Some Mormor fluff please? Jim's tiger is incredibly ill for several weeks and loses an unhealthy amount of weight, so Jim makes it his mission to feed his sniper back up, except Sebastian becomes bigger than Jim anticipated??</p>
            </blockquote>





	Health

Sebastian felt the mattress tilt slightly and his eyes shot open. His hand shot to the bedside table and closed on empty air. He had just enough time to register that before he also registered that it was just Jim. 

"Feeling better, Tiger?" The Irishman looked fairly done in. The dark circles under his eyes were more pronounced, and his slicked back hair was slightly mussed. He was halfway through getting out of a good suit. The jacket and shirt was gone, leaving him in a plain white undershirt and a fancy belt with pinstripe suit trousers. He was frowning, lips pouting, and Sebastian blinked through the sudden wave of dizziness.   
"I feel fine." He sank back into the mattress, muscles turning to water beneath his skin, and whimpered as his limbs seized a bit. "Why’s it so bloody cold?"

"It’s not." Jim’s answer was short, and he pressed a hand like ice against Sebastian’s forehead. "Stop being such a bitch. You’re on the mend. No hallucinations today. Which is why I took your gun."

Sebastian stared at the ceiling, confused memories trickling in. “Malaria?” he finally asked, turned his head to watch Jim. The room continued to spin gently even after he stopped moving.

"I swear to God, you’re from the 1800s," Jim confirmed, and leaned on the bed, polished shoes pointing straight to the ceiling. "You should really have gone to a hospital. Couldn’t risk it, though. The private doctor I hired will be around in a bit."

"S’what I get for wandering India post-army." Seb tried to be cheerful about it. He could smell Jim’s delicate cologne. He reached blindly out, and Jim’s hand settled on the back of his. Smaller, softer, and surprising strong when he gripped him. "M’okay, Boss."

"Shut up. I know."

The sick feeling didn’t let up until Sebastian was able to get out of bed on his own. Jim had felt cold and slimey inside since his sniper had first staggered in from a London fog soaked to the bone with sweat, eyes so glazed Jim had thought he was dead drunk until he gotten close and felt the heat that radiated from him. It had been a bad outbreak, and not entirely well managed. He should have risked taking Sebastian to a proper hospital. IV treatments, even of liquids, would have helped. Instead he’d been nursed with more old fashioned techniques. When he finally was busy around the house five weeks later, he was hardly the same man. Pale, with limp hair, and all but skin and bones. Jim hadn’t been able to get him to eat much for weeks, and his Tiger’s firm, muscular build was emaciated from the lack.

"Here," Jim said, plunking buttery, calorie-rich Indian take away in front of his sniper. "Just a little reminder of the land you fucked up your health forever for." Sebastian chuckled, and dug in, filled up half a bowl later.

"We’ll have to stretch my stomach a bit. I need to be able to hold more down before I can get back to the gym," Sebastian complained, and Jim slid into the couch next to him.

"Then two more bites, Tiger. For me." Sebastian obediently ate them, and then leaned back.

"I’m okay, Boss."

"Shut up. I know."

Thereafter followed weeks of food. Urging Seb to have two more bites, ten more bites, an extra helping, to finish the entire order. And then increasing the order. Of pampering his sniper. Of bringing him anything he even mentioned. And slowly that terrible thinness went away. Jim fed Sebastian with determination. He never wanted to see him gaunt and worn again. So he fed him until his cheeks were more than hollows. He fed him until his collar bone didn’t jut out, and his sharp hip bones didn’t protrude so violently. And he ignored all the other signs that came with it while he focused on one body part at a time.

He fed Sebastian up until he couldn’t see his collar bone, and ignored the soft, plump pecs directly beneath it. He filled out his sniper’s cheeks with orders, and taunts, and tenderly placed squares of chocolate into Sebastian’s mouth, and totally ignored the double chin that was forming as the still weak sniper was daily stuffed with all manner of fattening foods. He fattened Sebastian until thick, plump love handles hid his hip bones and never once questioned the hanging gut his sniper had acquired along the way.

Sebastian’s protests didn’t matter, because once Jim curled up with his soft, ample, well fed chief of staff he knew that his Tiger was healthy.


End file.
